


Hazards of the Trade

by Imrryr



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Takes place after the epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 12:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16744297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imrryr/pseuds/Imrryr
Summary: Yennefer has been growing increasingly worried about Ciri, and she's never been known for her patience.





	Hazards of the Trade

“I’m sure she’s _fine_ , Yen.”

His tone didn’t quite match the expression on his face.  Had anyone else been present, they might’ve remarked on how the witcher, one Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blavikan, or whatever else people were calling him these days, kept well back as the most powerful and terrifying sorceress he'd ever met paced the hall of Corvo Bianco, heels sounding loudly on the old wooden floorboards.  In times like these it was wise to give her space. 

Of course, it would’ve been even wiser to do what B.B. had done and escape through the window the moment her back was turned.

Sure wish he’d thought of that.

Now it was just him and one very frustrated sorceress in a space that was suddenly a lot smaller than it had been this morning.   As Yennefer brooded, the thrown-open shutters continued to creak in the breeze outside just to tempt him.

Yennefer was the kind of woman who’s brooding had you worrying about your own safety, like the onset of a tavern brawl.

Or maybe that was just Geralt…

In the center of the room, an orb flared ceaselessly from the top of a tall wooden staff, illuminating its surroundings better than the flickering torches on the walls.   It was the source of all of Yen’s worries.

He frowned.  He’d be lying if he said he didn’t worry too.  The orb had been pulsing like that for hours now – but he had seen Ciri fight.  He couldn’t imagine a situation she’d be likely to encounter out in the mountains south of Toussaint that would tax her skills so greatly.

Still, the orb spoke for itself.

There was a great deal of danger in telling Yennefer things she already knew, but he found himself doing it just the same under the assumption that eventually he’d say the right thing, even if accidentally.  “She fights monsters now.  It’s to be expected.”

Even under the pulsing yellow light, Yen’s violet eyes reminded him of the bitter crags of Skellige after dusk: dark skies over ancient ice, endlessly buffeted by a merciless wind.  “Even _you_ take a break once and a while, Geralt.”

Now was not the time to remind her that witchers could forgo sleep for weeks, even months if necessary.  It would most certainly not assuage her worries.  More often then he could remember, a simple hunt had taken days to complete, and sometimes the hunter became the hunted.    Many nights he’d spent in trees, or on high crags, waiting for his prey to bleed out, or simply to tire, staying just out of reach of razor-sharp claws and the spray of poison.  Whatever people said about witchers being heartless monsters, the hunt never failed to make your blood race.  Not even after a hundred years.

But the reality of their trade was not glamorous - fighting monsters never was, not even the human sort of monster.  The nice thing about having Dandelion as your self-appointed biographer was how he was kind enough to leave the less flattering aspects of your story out of his ballads, provided he liked you well enough.

The duel between witchers and their prey was not a dance, it was not an art, it was brutal and bloody work and not something to be shared.  Even if she didn’t care a fig about the witcher’s code – and Geralt been fairly lax on teaching her that aspect of their trade - Ciri would not want Geralt and Yen intruding on her work like a couple of anxious parents.

Yen hadn’t had a word of reproach for Ciri’s decision to follow that path.  She’d make a fine empress, there was no doubt, but this was the path she had chosen.   She’d long ago earned to right to decide her own future.

Still, Yen worried, and those worries only grew more pronounced after Ciri rode south to take up the witcher’s path alone.  Days passed as the hot Toussaint summer raged on, and before long Yen was snapping at everyone.   In less than a week, everyone in a five-mile radius, from the workers out among vineyards, to the nobles of Beauclair, knew to give plenty of space to the sorceress whose dress was as perpetually black as her mood.

She approached the orb, watching it closely as it continued to pulse rapidly, like the beat of a heart, which was, of course, exactly what it was mimicking.

The beat of Ciri’s heart.

What better way to know if she was in danger without letting her know they knew.  Geralt hadn’t tried to talk her out of it, but he hadn’t expected Yen to watch it like a hawk for the past two weeks either.

“She doesn’t like it when you spy on her.”  More of that Skellige ice.  “When _we_ spy on her.”  The room temperature failed to rise.

“It’s her first time,” she said, a single finger pressed against the glass.

He bit his tongue.  There were a lot of things he could say, and an almost equal number of things he absolutely should not say.  “If she can handle the Wild Hunt, she can handle a simple contract.”

“And how many times did you almost die handling that little contract from the Duchess?”

Fair enough.  “If she was sent after a higher vampire, she would’ve told us.”  Yen met his gaze sharply, and while Geralt tried to finish with something reassuring, what instead came out was, “Probably.”

Who would’ve thought he’d say exactly the wrong thing?  Eyes narrowed, Yen raised a hand and Geralt knew instinctively what she had in mind.  Despite a keen instinct for self-preservation, he leapt forward and grabbed her arm.  “If we interrupt her in the middle of a fight, we’ll look awfully stupid when she runs her sword through the both of us.”  A searing wave of fire lapped up his arm and had to force himself to maintain his grip.  “ _Yen_ ,” he added sternly.  An unpleasantly familiar ball of light formed beside the table, flaring out into a portal.

“I’m going,” she said, her words as sharp as any sword.  “And you can either come with me or stay here.”

‘ _And hear about it for the rest of my life, no doubt_ ,’ Geralt continued in his head.   He sighed, biting back the burning pain in his hand and the rising dread in his stomach.  “Then we’ll go.”  He always had before, hadn’t he?   Why mess with tradition?

…

They stumbled out of the portal and into another much more spacious but very dimly-lit room.  In his woozy state, stomach turning and vision blurry, Geralt noticed the writhing figure in front of them just as Yennefer did.  As he reached for his sword, Yen again raised a hand, magic flaring, but it fell when the scene resolved itself into what it truly was, a bedroom, an unfamiliar face clutching her fine silken bedsheets and gasping a familiar name in ecstasy.

When the woman suddenly noticed the intrusion, she tensed, gaping in a horrified outrage only royalty could ever truly master.  The two intruders gaped back.  There was a scream and the covers were thrown aside, revealing Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, true heir to the throne of Nilfgard, now witcher of the School of the Wolf, in what was a very compromising position.

For the first time in his life, Geralt froze, completely unsure of what to do.

She shot out a hand and he saw the elemental sign just as he averted his eyes, but it was too late.   Surging towards Yennefer, he grabbed her waist an instant before a heavy blast propelled them both through the doors, over the balcony railing, and into fish pond below.

They broke the surface a moment later, gasping for breath, Yen’s face a shade of red he’d never seen before.  There was no time for so much as a quip before a female voice – not Ciri’s – cried out in the language of Touissant, “Guards!  Guards!”  The words required no translation, and the recommended course of action upon hearing someone crying out like that was always the same.

Even Vesemir would’ve agreed.

Yen was already strides ahead of him, disappearing into the bushes.

…

She sat on the other side of the fire, dressed only in her small-clothes while her feathered blouse and skirt lay spread out on the log at her feet.  Sometimes an ember would pop from the blaze and fall upon them and Yen would noncommittally brush it away.  It was the only time she’d moved since undressing herself.

“Thirsty?” he asked.

Yen said nothing.  She hadn’t spoken either.

Geralt reached for the flask at his belt only to find it empty.  “I’ll, uh, be back in a minute.”

Still nothing.

He shook his head as he made his way down to a small babbling brook.   In all the time he’d chased after Ciri, he’d never given much thought to what he’d actually say when they were reunited; simply seeing her again would’ve been enough.  What would he say now?

The prospect frightened him in a way no monster ever could.

Just as he dipped the flask beneath the water, a head appeared out of the tall grass.  Despite feeling as though Ciri might just give him and Yennefer a wide berth for the next, say, eighty years or so, somehow, he was not surprised to see her.  She was an expert tracker after all.  He swallowed.  “Ciri.”

“Geralt.”

In this case, the best response would probably be to sit and simply take whatever Ciri was about to hit him with.  Physically or verbally, he wasn’t sure which would be harder to bear.

Instead, Ciri pushed through the grass and held up a wooden bowl piled high with fresh fruit.  “Thought you two might be hungry.  Yen still by the fire?”

He nodded, waiting for the plate to be thrown at his face.  To his surprise, this did not happen, Ciri only smiled triumphantly at his slumped posture and leaned over the brook separating them, offering the bowl until he finally took it.  “Erm.   Thanks.”

She snorted, sitting down on the opposite bank, feet dangling almost to the water.  Ninety years had given him plenty of experience at reading people, and at that moment it felt as though he was down to his last card while his opponent had an untouched deck of heroes ready to play.  “So,” she drawled, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Wonderful.  She was going to make him say it.   “Yen was…”  Ciri’s eyes narrowed.  He tried again, “ _We_ were… worried about you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And why was that?”

He sighed, but eventually gave in under those focused eyes, filling Ciri in on Yen’s magical surveillance with an economy of words, in the hope that the less she knew, the less intrusive it all would seem.  She wasn’t half as surprised as Geralt expected.

“Funny.  I was expecting to merely be shadowed by a familiar.   I’ve been keeping an eye on the local raven population.”

“She thought of that,” he said, cringing, “but there’s a limit on how far they can travel from their master.”

Ciri grunted.

“When she saw your heart racing for several hours, she feared the worst.”

“I see.”  Ciri’s flush was noticeable even under the light of the moon.

“Sorry we interrupted.”

A cool nighttime breeze blew in over the grass at the edge of the clearing.  He was reminded of nights like these where he’d been caught in some rather compromising situations.  Not nearly as often as Yen might’ve thought, and not at all since Triss, but when you lived a witcher’s life you sometimes found yourself yearning for companionship of one sort or another.  It was a lesson you learned how to handle on your own.  Vesemir wouldn’t have touched that one with a ten-foot pike.

“It’s fine,” she said, pulling out a blade of dried grass and tossing it into the stream.

His mind conjured up his old teacher walking in on him in a similar position.  It would’ve scarred them both for life, he was sure.  “So… um… client of yours?”

She nodded, still looking away.  “She was very… grateful… to be rescued.”

“Yes.  I could see that.”  He cringed at the sharp look Ciri gave him.  “Really wish I hadn’t though.”

“As am I,” she replied with a faint smile.

“I’m surprised the guards left you alone with her.”

“Guards, it would seem, have very little imagination.  I suppose they thought she was inviting me in so we could do each other’s hair.”

“Hmm.” 

She took a strawberry from Geralt’s bowl, lingering at the red flesh that ran up the back of the fingers of his right hand.  “How’d you burn yourself?”

“Yen.”

Ciri raised an eyebrow. 

“She’s fiery sometimes.” 

She rolled her eyes.  “I imagine she dragged you into this?”

‘ _Literally_ ,’ he thought, but after a moment’s consideration Geralt decided to ignore the question: the answer was all too obvious, but he’d like to preserve both Yennefer’s dignity and what little remained of his own.  “She’s sorry, you know.”

“I know.”

“I think she’s planning on camping out here until she can think of a way to properly apologize.”

Ciri sighed and nodded before finally rising.  For a long moment, she simply stood there, lost in thought, watching the setting moon.  She’d thrown on a plain shirt and breeches after being… interrupted, but her twin swords remained strapped to her back.  Geralt was impressed by the expression on her face.  Anger still showed, but it had already been tempered.

The world should be grateful there was a witcher like Ciri in it; one with so much heart and compassion in her soul.  The impulse was still there to shield her from all the horrors of this world, but he wouldn’t.  Ciri was strong, and what her future might be, Geralt couldn’t begin to imagine.

She was sure to outshine them all.

At last, she let out a breath, hopped the stream, and began walking up the hill towards the distant camp.  Geralt didn’t bother to hide his sigh of relief. 

…

Ciri sat down on the warm log in front of her, absently feeling the half-dried material of Yen’s ruined skirt, stained in several places with mud and pond scum.  Nothing however quite matched the sight of Yennefer herself: leaves and pine-needles stuck to her limp and tangled hair, and still clutching at her legs as if she were a child who’d been ordered to sit in the corner.

Her makeup was running too.

“You look like a drowned rat.”

It said volumes when Yen just sat there, chin propped on her shivering knees without uttering a word in response.  She only kept looking at Ciri with wide, regretful eyes.  Geralt could never have imagined her appearing so despondent, or so defeated.

“I suppose you’re sorry?”

Yennefer nodded.

Ciri shook her head, but there was humor in her bright eyes.  “Then I forgive you.”

Yen watched the fire for a moment before finally summoning up the courage to speak.  “I know you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself.  Just… promise me you’ll write…” she said, voice barely heard over the crackling fire, “and visit when you can.”

All the tension in her body broke when Ciri placed a hand on her bare shoulder.  “Witchers live for centuries.  We have all the time in the world now.  You needn’t worry so much about me.”

“I will _always_ worry about you,” she said heatedly before mastering herself, “but you’re a grown woman.”  They shared a look.  “In more ways than one now.”

From his spot on the other side of the fire, Geralt shut his eyes.

“What’s her name anyway?”

Ciri sighed.  “The Duchess Carolina Maria of Argentera.   I rescued her from bandits, who in turn had been devoured by kikimores." 

“You’d be surprised how often that happens,” Geralt said with a chuckle.

"Fortunately, they couldn’t break into the house she’d been imprisoned in.  No opposable thumbs makes doors a tricky prospect for them."

Yen was lost in thought.  “And that was earlier today?”

“Two nights ago, actually.   I returned her to the castle yesterday.   Why?”

“Oh.”  Yen swallowed.  “I see.”

Geralt winced at the memory of the rapidly flashing orb.  All day it had been like that.  The Duchess must’ve been very thankful indeed.  He shook his head, wondering if there was a spell out there that could erase fifteen precise seconds of one’s memory.   He’d lived a long time, seen more than most, but there were some things one should never see.

“Geralt has been kind enough to be vague with the details.  But whatever magic this is you’re using to track me, I want it dispelled.”

Yen dropped her head.  “It will be.”

“Good.”

“I hope we didn’t ruin your –“ she let the sentence hang like that.

Ciri put her head in her hands.  “I couldn’t think of an appropriate way to explain that my parents are impossibly nosy.  So, I acted as though I’d never seen you before in my life.”

“Oh," she slumped.  "That’s fair."

“As far as the Duchess knows, I just saved her from a very ineptly attempted sorcerous kidnapping.”

Yen looked up sharply, and Geralt was surprised by the shimmer of tears around her eyes.   “ _Parents_?” her voice wavered.

Ciri just smiled.  “After the Wild Hunt began chasing me you tracked me down out of love… you did it for _me_.  You’ve never wanted anything more of me than to be able to survive in this world.  I suppose sometimes a family can be a sorceress, a witcher, their adopted daughter… and Dandelion.”

Yen wrapped her in a tight hug and Geralt laughed to himself at the way Ciri’s nose immediately crinkled.  He was going to need a long bath after this himself.  Might’ve been drowners living in that pond for how putrid it smelled.

The two made a small meal out of the remains of the fruit bowl while Geralt absently sharpened his sword.  “I should go soon,” Ciri said eventually.  “The Duchess is anxiously awaiting my return.”

Yennefer met Geralt’s eyes over Ciri’s shoulder.  “She clearly takes after you.”

He looked away, finding a new determination to make his witcher’s blade the sharpest in all the continent.

“Sorry you had to find out this way,” Ciri added.

She seemed confused for a moment, but finally a ghost of a smile crossed Yen’s lips.  “Oh, if you mean… well, we already knew _that_.”

“You did?” she asked.

Yen took hold of Ciri’s hands.  “You left a trail of female admirers through half of Velen and Skellige.   It’s why you were so easy to track.”

Ciri blushed.  Yen was exaggerating, but only a little.  He’d met more than one barmaid whose cheeks flushed while recalling the appearance of a young, white-haired swordswoman at their tavern.  Ciri left an impression wherever she went, like a comet trailing across the night’s sky, and just as portentous.

“Just another thing you have in common with your father,” she stared pointedly at him.

Geralt grumbled to himself.  “If you’re referring to that time with the Duke of Fen Aspra, that was nearly sixty years ago.”  He looked up to find both women staring at him with wide eyes.  Ciri’s jaw dropped.  Oh, she meant with _women,_ right.  “Uh, never mind.”

…

It was still dark when Geralt returned to Corvo Bianco.  When he and Yen reappeared in the hall, she’d grabbed the orb without a word and locked herself in their room with all its magical implements.  For his own safety, he did not follow, opting to take his bath where the servants had theirs.

Evidently, things had settled upon his return some time later because B.B. had returned at his customary position, rising from his chair when Geralt stepped through the door.  He was less than helpful at determining where Yennefer had gone to, but the fact that he’d seen her leave and she hadn’t turned him into a toad was a very positive sign.

With a little help from his witcher senses, Geralt found her sitting on the bench behind the manor, making certain to announce himself by his footsteps, but Yen didn’t acknowledge him, not even when he sat down beside her.

They sat like that for a long while in silence as the sky slowly lightened and dawn approached.  A gentle breeze and the chirping of crickets were all there was to be heard outside.  Settled life.  No wails of banshees, no growling wolves... He wondered if he’d ever get used to staying in one place.

He let his eyes drift over to Yennefer.  It would depend entirely on the company, he supposed.

Finally, Yen glanced in his direction, amused and unsurprised as ever to find him watching her.  “So, you and the Duke of Fen Aspra, hmm?”

“Hmmph,” figures she’d latch onto that.  “Thought I told you about him… must’ve been Dandelion.”

“Yes,” she said, rolling her eyes, “I get the two of us mixed up all the time, myself.”

Sarcasm.  But at least she was speaking to him.  “It was a long time ago, Yen.”

“I know,” she stretched, carefully placing her legs over his lap.  He had no idea how she’d done it, but every inch of her was as spotless as ever, from her boots to her blouse, to her hair.  “I just wouldn’t have thought he was the sort.”

“No, not the current duke, the previous one.”  The one who died without heirs coincidentally enough.  “Though, the new one’s not half bad either, to be honest,” he added, mostly to see the reaction on her face.

“Ah,” she smiled, shaking her head.  “Ciri really does take after you, it seems.   The Duchess of Argentera is practically twice her age, you know.”

Hmm.  It was wise of her not to bring that up in Ciri’s presence, she was on thin enough ice as it was.   “What about you?” he asked, hoping to see the matter dropped.  “I’ve often speculated…”  Yennefer had spent a lot of time in the company of women after all - very powerful, very beautiful women...

She snorted.  “I bet you have; in vivid detail, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Hoping for more, he tapped her knee.  “So?”

“Please,” she scoffed, shifting slightly and smiling to herself as she looked on the tall spires of Beauclair, red tiles twinkling as the first light of the rising sun struck them.  “A woman has her secrets.”

Geralt noted the shattered orb at the foot of the bench, still burning lowly with its final pulses of magic, like the dying embers of a fire.  “You always were far subtler than Ciri was.”

Her sparkling eyes met his and followed his gaze to the shattered orb.  They both laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> As close as I might ever come to writing a m/f fic. :)


End file.
